The Soul Collects Thorns

The soul collects thorns.
The heart hoards regrets.
The mind feast on memories.
The rose profligates.
We were a mutation,
a fender bender, a war
yet some piece of you lingers
in me and I won’t give it back.
The shrapnel remains in the wound.
Think of the stain
that never comes off a shirt.
The burn mark on an empty pan,
left too long on the stove.
Just because we’ve had more than we could take
doesn’t mean we wanted too much.

Oh so many wounds and shrapnel. I’ll agree with that wholeheartedly, Poetess! And if anyone tells us we are overweight, we can cite all of the broken hearts of the past and then go get a cheeseburger. 😉 This is wonderful, Tosha. ❤